"Meet here after the apocalypse"
and I could have sworn
that the wiry flailing arms beating a circle
of drums were those damn art-house kids,
but on closer inspection from
my seat in the library
I saw they were children––not kids
in the sense of our casual dismissals, or how
you will always refer to sons and daughters––
but children, who probably don't think
about the ninety-eight percent of species
that are extinct, or how the sound of a crash
doesn't send us running until we learn
to associate destruction with tragedy.
The sign had a party hat attached
to the corner, with tassels like fireworks,
which are really just beautiful explosions.
Prompt via: Bigtentpoetry.org